


Gutwrenching

by intoxicated_by_our_lies, symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Prison, Attempted Murder, Blood and Torture, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Isolation, Mental Disintegration, Mental Instability, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9462023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intoxicated_by_our_lies/pseuds/intoxicated_by_our_lies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: The first day they took you to the dark room, you were scared. You were scared, because a part of you knew that whatever you were going to see wouldn’t be unseen. You think that death would’ve left a less foul taste in your mouth, because the sight of crimson and scarlet blood, organs and intestines ripped from a sickly stomach were splattered across the screen.





	

**Gutwrenching  
...**

 

**Month 3**

You know the white walls of this room so intimately you could’ve traced them in your sleep. Hands on the walls and across the thin coat of paint lining the bricks, so fragile that it’s almost invisible to your eyes. You don’t know how long you’ve been trapped in here, but you think you can count the days if you really try- they pass listlessly, like clockwork, ticking and tocking against the eerie silence that fills the space.

No matter how long you’ve looked, it’s all you can see. Rows upon rows of white extending to the deepest recesses of your mind- of this place. Half the time you wonder if you are in your mind- if this is a figment of your imagination, or if it’s real. If it’s real, you don’t know what to call it- your own personal matrix, perhaps, because it’s an endless array of sacred geometry that’s passed behind your eyelids enough times for it to become well and clear.

Surely, however, that hasn’t stopped you from connecting- hasn’t taken you out of it. No, you’re still here- in this taciturn place that isn’t quite so taciturn. The walls echo with screams until late hours of the night, for reasons unknown to you. It’s like being chased by a faceless demon, with only a voice to tell you of what’s going on.

They’ve taken to isolating you so well, locking you in here and shutting that white door with the bars across it well enough you can’t see. Half the time you don’t think you can move- it’s like an aura of pressure that weighs you down and crushes your bones. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to leave… trapped with your thoughts, and your thoughts alone.

But it was your thoughts that built this place. Your mind knows the prison inside and out- you designed it, you anchored it, you made it _for them,_ and here you are, a prisoner of some empty white cell that only you know how to leave, but even you aren’t sure. No, you designed it to be inescapable- so that nobody could ever break loose or get away from the shrieks of pain that they’d let loose on you long before you stepped foot in this place.

You aren’t quite sure how insane you are- or if you are at all. You think you’re just empty, lost somewhere between chaos and ignorance and far too disgusted to break out. Not when all you see is white, and when that white turns to grey in the darkness and fades to black behind your eyelids.

\---

**Month 5**

You are crowned here. You are crowned, and you can hear it in the way they scream at you, because it’s not beyond your reach to hear what the damned have to offer. They take them away before you have a chance to glimpse their faces, and when they return, everything is different. The walls are too white to betray the sickness inside this prison- a palace of agony.

The first day they took you to the dark room, you were scared. You were scared, because a part of you knew that whatever you were going to see wouldn’t be unseen. You think that death would’ve left a less foul taste in your mouth, because the sight of crimson and scarlet blood, organs and intestines ripped from a sickly stomach were splattered across the screen.

You think you knew her, once. You think you knew her before all this- when you were Ascelin and not Astaroth. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s dead now- and maybe you’re just as dead as her, in a way. Maybe it wasn’t your insides that were getting blown up or strewn over broken down walls and your mother’s corpse, but it felt the same. It all felt the same anymore- the long, unending decay of your mind was just as obvious as gore.

Maybe it was supposed to hurt, but it almost didn’t anymore. It was so still, so quiet… you thought you could hear your voice somewhere in your mind, but you hadn’t heard it in so long you’re hardly sure what it sounds like. Maybe some sort of… whisper, or an endless song of sorrow that echoes around same as the screams. If it has a sound, it doesn’t have an intonation- nothing more that blatant sterilization, the same as this godforsaken hollow world.

\---

**Month 6**

You wake up. You wake up one day and it’s suddenly different. You don’t know what’s different until you’re looking across the room and there’s suddenly something filling in the gap where an empty bed used to be. It’s… a person.

A man. You think he’s taller than you- maybe, although it’s so hard to tell, with everything so strained and worn down amongst the silence, and when you haven’t seen yourself for so long. No, all you remember about your appearance is the dark skin you see when you look down at your arms and the _smell_ of something close to plague, hanging over your skin so much that you’d cut off your senses if you could.

You stare at him for too long, taking in the wide eyes that practically flash between light and dark, unblemished skin darker than your own and the way his clothes seem to cling to his skin, unlike yours, which threaten to fall off your frame. You pull away, pushing your back against the wall, shutting your eyes for a few seconds and biting your lip.

And then you think you hear words.

_What is this place?_

You can’t speak. It’s like you’re rooted to the spot, stuck staring at your own hands, cracked and blistered, and thinking about blood painting the canvas of white that’s in front of you. You can’t speak, and you won’t.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes you could almost hear the sound of heavy footprints, sliding and kicking against the hard concrete that is your home. You listen, heart beating so quickly and hard that you're absolutely shaking with terror and anticipation that conceals the fact that you're so desperate for this not to be your mind playing tricks on you.. but every time, every time you can practically smell the aftershave that lingered on their bodies and hear terrifying whispers.. it vanishes. Occasionally you hear them walking away, you think. Talking in a foreign words your ears are new and virgin to. You wonder if you're going insane.

After what feels like decades have passed, you conclude it. You're ill. Like one of those crazy straight jacket patients you've seen in books- masturbating to their nurses or guards, whatever they're called, being subjected to painful tortures that remind you of when you used to tear off the legs and the wings of butterflies as an experiment in your youth. Those days have come and passed, lectures of humanity being forced into you daily and the lack of insects forcing your psychopathic tendencies to leave your body.

You start wondering if they're not human, but rodents and god awful roaches that are struggling to find food. Somewhere you read that they're both scared of people- scurrying away when they hear their presence.. these ones like to taste on your flesh and screech at you when you knock them off. They lack the fear, lacked the subtle intelligence to stay away. Nowadays, whenever you hear what you think is them, you let out unnatural noises, slapping and kicking at the walls in hopes that they'll become prey once more. They're almost comforting in a way. Your only interaction, a food source at times.. you make little graveyards for the ones that survive your rampages. Very few have.

The little graves were gone. Instead, a man stood where they used to lurk.

Your hands are wrapped around his throat before you know it, mind going into automatic overdrive. From your years of battling, you know that other predators are to be feared and that you have to know their weaknesses before they know yours. The rodents have soft, flesh bellies that are so easily squashed while cockroaches drown easily. Pissing is your prefered method. It's hard to remember the last time you drank something- a long time ago, you think, most because your lips bleed and throat is so dry it hurts to cough.

He is your enemy- a threat to your livelihood. He needs to die.

 

* * *

 

You want to scream- might’ve, if you had any words to say, if your voice was real and it worked and wasn’t just some grotesque _venom_  decaying in your throat, your body worn down by the feeling of his form atop you. His hands seem stronger than the rope you’d used when you first got here, and you think he wants to break you. If he could, he would, but for you, you aren’t sure it matters. You're not a _fighter,_ you're an engineer, trapped and left gasping for breath beneath him, hand weakly smacking across his chest as if it could somehow help…

It doesn’t. Nothing ever does, in this cacophony of chaos, which only grew darker the more you looked at the white walls.

But then he’s stepping back, pulling away, wordlessly, and you’re grasping at your neck, trying to regain the air you’d lost, as if breathing could somehow fix all of this. It can’t- you know that, have always known that, but you want to hope… you want to _hope_ that it makes you more real.

You’re looking at him, but he won’t meet your eyes, and yet you know. You know you’re only alive because you weren’t a threat, not like the rest of this place… even though you might be the worst of them all. Worse than worse, and trapped in such a vicious, endless cycle that you can hardly stand it. You want to call out to the man, but his eyes are flashing again.

You don’t have your voice and you don’t know what you’d say even if you did.

Suddenly he’s speaking. His voice is low, droll, something you can hardly hear over the static in your ears, and you’re pushing yourself up, for the briefest moment… but it’s like your brain won’t connect with your body and your legs are going out from under you and you’re falling, staring up at him with an expression you’re sure is full of anxiety- the only thing you’ve managed to have since coming here.

You’re staring at him, but you can’t see- all you can see are the white walls, crashing in on his body, and everything else is so distant, like a faraway memory, or as though you’re caught in a dream. You want to close your eyes. You want to close your eyes and disappear.

“W-who… arr- ou?” You finally manage to get out, pulling yourself back onto the thin cot in the corner of the room. “Pl…?”

 

* * *

 

 

You could almost _swear_ you've heard voices again, but it sounds so unnatural and unfamiliar in your ears that you think that it's just like the footsteps... nonexistent, surreal.

But there that threat is, all huddled up in the small corner like a terrified animal. His clothes were practically rotting on his skeletal body, dirty and ripped. Just like yours, but yours are practically painted on, unlike this man, clad in something too heavy and too big. He resembles one of those animals you faintly recall from your childhood- they look so wild because of their hair, but underneath are tiny, unfortunate. You can't recall the name. Not even if you tried.

A single word comes out of your mouth- “ _Quiet_.” You're not sure what it means, because the last time you spoke was when you were small and filled with an ambition that's long since been destroyed. You were meant to forget, even if you didn't want to. These walls are your home, the only place you really know anymore. The world- the tiny little village you grew up in was devastated in a fire, destroyed- it's changed without you. You're unwanted out there, a danger to yourself and others. You don't blame them.. you’ve killed so many; the dangerous kisses from fire have burned and charred your skin like many others. You don't think anyone could mistake you as being harmless nowadays.

You approach him, knuckles and fingers bent at an ungodly position in case the prey attempts to become the predator once more, curious about the little whines and whimpers he makes. Rats made the same sound when they're scared and you have them on their last legs, helpless calls for assistance that you just know will never be answered because it's everyone out for themselves.

Another word finds itself on your tongue. “Safe.”

You don't know what it means either, but it sounds nice and you can't bring yourself to scare the thing anymore. When the predator gets bored and realizes that the prey isn't worth the energy, they lose interest and the animal is safe from harm for a little while. You think that this is a good approach.

The weak creature before you seems to lose some of his tenseness at this, more words leaving his lips that are lost on you. Shaking your head, you turn away from the man, stripping yourself of the tight shirt. It hurts, digging into your skin like rope. Felt more like straw from a burlap sack than a shirt. The man looks away from you with a bright squeal, hiding his head in his lap.

You wonder if it's even fit to be here.

 

* * *

 

 

You're half terrified. The part of you that isn't wants to scream at him- shove him away and pull yourself tighter, disappear into yourself like you weren't even alive to begin with. Surely this isn't real- a bad dream, as everything else is. You can feel something on your cheeks- hot and wet, burning your skin like acid and causing you to shake when you hear that harsh syllable part from your cellmate.  _Safe._ You want to shake your head- tell him _no, it isn't safe, nothing, none of it-_ but you can't.

You stare at him for several long, unerring moments, noticing the way he pulls clothes from his body, the way he stares at something beyond your reach with too much intent to seem real. You feel... alarmed, pressing your face into your knees and covering yourself more, like you could protect yourself from him, somehow.

A part of you doesn't want to, screaming at you that _you're safe_ and _he won't hurt you_... the imprint of hands on your neck says differently.

Before you know what's happening, his hand is under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. You can't move. You're paralyzed, staring up at the man, wide eyed and shaking. You want to try again- to make words, ask him... you can't. You feel like this is the beginning of the end- like you're about to die, so suddenly and with so many regrets. You have nothing to live for... you think you want him to kill you, now.

"Ca... ki... me?" No- no,  it's not right. "Name."

 

* * *

 

 

You shake your head once more, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. He sounds like a child- though you suspect he might be your elder, but you can’t be so sure. Years have definitely taken a toll on his face, bags underneath his eyes so heavy and dark that you wonder if he sleeps at all. You never do, that's obvious.. it's hard to sleep here.

"Food?" It's a universal word, even if it's said in different languages.. you know the English word just as well as you know it properly in your home language. You point your finger at a mangled corpse of a rat, maggots swarming and eating whatever they can find of it.

You're hungry- but not hungry enough to devour something as dirty and diseased as that.

Repeating the word, you stare at his face more. He's much too timid for it to be healthy- continuing to whimper and scout away from your harsh grip on his face. You can't recall the last time you've ever seen a grown man act like this before.

And then he's repeating a word- the same word, pointing at himself hesitantly as if you're stupid, slowly and deliberately stretching out the vowels. You think he's saying his name, but you're not quite sure. No one cared about names anymore- last names were important, because it showed them what kind of man you are, more importantly who your family was so they could see the best way to treat you. First names are rarely said, no one calls you it unless they’re family or a beloved.. and you have neither.

Leaning down, you carefully pronounce, "Aledius." Your last name means nothing here. You're all equal.

 

* * *

 

 

It's harsh, his grip, the way he's staring at you, leaning down so his breath hits your face, hot and rough, an almost rancid smell across his tongue. He's breathing so harshly you want to cry, attempting to pull away once more only to be gripped more roughly, pulled closer. You're upset- your heart is pounding in your head, eyes watering and blood coursing through your veins and burning you. You feel disgusted. Not by him, but by yourself- and your weakness.

You try and gain some composure, raising your eyes to meet his- feral, intimidating, do dark you could drown in them. Your body hurts just from looking at him. But you nod- you nod, and look back down at the floor. Food, he'd said, but you don't have any- anything but the white prison of which you know every inch. You try to pull yourself to your feet- struggling and stumbling so your back is against the wall. You feel like a child, afraid of the dark and the monsters it hides.

"Al..." you nod, briefly. "Cel. Ascelin. Me." Your hand scrabbles against the white paint, scratching it, form still quivering even as he finally moves away from you. You look toward the door. "Black room?" You don't know how to ask- ask if he's been there yet, seen what you have...

But he's nothing like you. You, who must've damned him here, ruined everything for these _people_  inside... they'd kill you if they knew. You don't know if you'd care- not anymore. You pull the oversized shirt further around you, look down. "I'm... sorry."

You need to adapt. There's no use in worrying about the past, something you can never fix. Perhaps you were an architect once, but now... now you're as much a prisoner as the rest of them.

 

* * *

 

**Month 8**

 

You're in that room again.

The one without your little rodent battle mates in their graves, so bright and white unlike your room that was entirely dark. Cel - you think - is here too. Crying, rocking himself back and forth, whispering words that still continue to not make any real sense in your head. It's almost insulting.. you try not to focus on it too much though, it hurts your head sometimes.

"Safe?" You ask, unsure of yourself as you step closer to the smaller man. He doesn't glance up at you, but you're not surprised. The way he's crying, there's no doubt that he'd have trouble hearing. Repeating the word again, you reach an almost comforting hand out. "Safe?"

* * *

 

 

You almost smack his hand away. There's a godawful ache in your brain and the scent of blood continues to linger in your nose, eyes bloodshot and puffy around the edges, as if you'd been staring into the pitch for far too long. You have, really- you have, and it's made you mad, almost a hypochondriac in regards to your fear. You think you can feel it inside you, still. Some sort of raw parasite that devours your guts and flesh, inside to the outside, leaving nothing on your bones.

You're scared. And suddenly it's like you're a vine wrapping around a tree, clinging to Aledius' side with such an intensity you're fearful of him shoving you away. Your hands ache, arms... all bony and fragile, wanting to pop out of the flesh and grind themselves into dust. Your skin is the consistency of sandpaper now, rough and gritty, dry patches across your dark skin as if it really is disintegrating, and it faintly disturbs you.

"Not safe," you hiss, finally. "Not safe. Go. We leave. Need to leave. Can't die like this. Nonono. Bad. Please." It's like all your fear is spilling over into a jumble of fragmented words, wanting to rip you apart so desperately. You cry. You speak, long whispers that become illegible as you pull him closer, onto your cot, face buried in his chest and legs tucked up to your body.

This place disgusts you. You disgust yourself.

 

* * *

 

 

You're still not sure what he's saying, ignoring him in favour of looking down at his neck. Large, inhuman markings tainting his neck like a tattoo. From your hands, you all but faintly recall, when you thought that this weak, crying little man was a threat. Weeks ago, maybe days.. it's hard to tell time here. No windows, no birds that wake you; silence, always.

Slowly pushing him away from you, you hiss at the sudden affection. You never liked affection- kisses, hand holding.. none of that. You think that this is why most of your previous relationships never worked out in the end. The lack of comfort from your hands always turned them off. The man's grip doesn't hold, slowly sinking into the uncomfortably small mattress as he looks up at you.

You can only describe the look in his eyes as desperation.

"Safe." You reluctantly pet the top of his head, sighing at how terrified the man looks. "Safe..." You try to think of something comforting, looking away from the man for a brief moment. No other words come to mind other than, "Me."

 

* * *

 

 

You are desperate. You are desperate, and you haven't the slightest idea what's really going on- you see white when you wake up and white when you go to sleep, but somehow it's mixed with red. So much red it hurts you, burns your skin until you dig nails in and try to scratch it off... you're so torn. Torn between wanting to escape and wanting to die...

"You. Me. Leave." You try again, relaxing somehow into the feeling of Aledius' hand on your head, brushing through the short hair that's barely had a chance to grow back after they shaved it. They put wires on you- you can still feel the pulses of electric spears pushing into your body. You try and grab onto him again, hands shaking and fumbling as they tug on his arm, so much thinner suddenly than when you'd first seen him.

He's become more of a comfort than a threat, and it seems so strange, with how he'd choked you out and shoved you around like some animal before. But you didn't fight it- you've never fought it, never could, not after...

"Please. You. Me. Go out. I know. I know the way."

 

* * *

 

 

Shaking your head once more, you let your arms drop to either side of you, watching curiously as Cel moved away from you. You briefly consider trying to comfort him again, but decide against it. Too much touching for one day, you don't want to do any more of it for a while now.

"Safe. Cel." You try to be comforting, moving away from him to sit down on your cot again. He doesn't seemed moved by this, continuing to stare at you in disbelief. You're not sure if he really understands you, but you're frankly not sure if you care.

Your eyes wonder down your halfway nude body, eyeing marks that have been infected due to numerous occasions of being bitten by vermin. Still, you somehow managed to look more healthy than Cel does. Not a skeleton practically rotting away, but so close to it you doubt he'd last against rats.

"Food," you announce suddenly, beckoning him forward so that you're able to point at a thick rat in the corner of the room, scavenging away without a second thought of its supposed predators.

You're not a threat anymore. Not to the rodents of the prison, not to Cel... you suppose this could lead you down a road of being considered prey.

 

* * *

 

 

You're still so anxious. You think someone, your former colleagues, friends at university, would call you defective- as a human being, as an instrument of both everything and nothing at once. You're always so distraught, hands tied down so tightly you're surprised you can move. It's this place... killing you, rotting your brain and crushing you into dust as your mind deteriorates. You hate it- this, _everything._

"Don't." You say softly, more to yourself than Aledius. You turn away from him, hide your head against your knees and try to pretend you don't see the red on your hands or the lines of blueprints behind your eyes. You wonder what they'd find if they drilled into your skull, broke you apart and tore into flesh like hungry beasts.

You're so scared. You're broken and you want someone to hold you, want to make it all just go away as if it had never existed in the first place, as if you had never _acted._   You're falling on your side, skinny, dark arms wrapped around your head to hide your swollen eyes as you start screaming. Curses, words you can't make out. You think you're going to die...

The door's suddenly swinging open and you can feel hands on your arms and you're too weak to fight it off.

 

* * *

 

 

You don't move or speak, simply watch and stare at the men that easily overpowered the older man and took him away, thankfully sparing no ill-willed glances at him. You wonder if they're the same men from the beginning- the footsteps, they men that whispered words you couldn't understand. Perhaps they are, you don't really know.

It's only a moment later before a lone man comes back, his face obscured by a mask of sorts, needle in hand. You're on your feet feet before you know it, fists slamming against the walls and screams of your native language coming from your mouth.

They're stronger than you.

Pinning you to the wall, injecting you with a syringe before moving you onto the bed and stripping you of your clothes before dragging you out of the hall. You're out before you can see anything.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s dark. It’s dark, and that’s all you know, but you can still hear the sound of screaming- and then it dissipates. Laughter, loud and booming, and cries for blood to be spilled, curses and shouts about how disgusting you are- how filthy, how you’re a liar and a traitor and you killed everyone. You did, you know you did… you know you did, because you designed it.

 **You designed it all.** You, Ascelin Cyrille, an engineer who wanted to _believe_ in your government, _believe_ in their way of life. This prison was- it was something made to _protect_ society, but instead it’s eaten it whole, broken it down and retched it out in shreds.

You wish you were dead. You wish you were dead, because the walls that were formerly white are now made of glass and you can see _him_ on the other side. Aledius. And they’re drawing lines into his skin, so thick and red, letting it spill out from the broken, hot blade. You want to scream again. You want to, but you’ve been screaming for far too long, kicking and shouting and breaking down… you don’t have the words to describe your thoughts… let alone your feelings.

You’re reaching out for him but the glass is shattering, glittering shards of silver in the air that turn from _black to white to black to white_ … _grey._

Volatile eruptions of laughter surround you, and your legs are going out from under you and when you look up, it isn’t Aledius at all. No, it’s _you,_ you’re bleeding all over the place, crying and making such a mess you don’t know what to do with yourself, the tears washing you of your sin and the blood birthing you anew…

When you return to the room, it’s dark, the lights gone, white walls painted over with black. Everywhere you look you see some surreal pitch, reflecting back the light and bathing you in sorrow, making you cry and cry until your throat is raw and your eyes burn. And you need _him,_ because at least he was something real, something _decent,_ not evil or unjust…

He doesn’t come back.

**In a way, neither do you.**

**Author's Note:**

> repost because somehow?? this was deleted. anyway, Anna (intoxicated_by_our_lies) and I were talking about a potential screenplay submission for this story, so feedback would be... ehm, nice.


End file.
